Choices
by 1Scarylady
Summary: One bad choice, made during a time of severe stress, has defined Eloise Cousland's life ever since.  The men in her life both try, in their own way, to set things straight.  Warning: includes a scene of mild bondage and dubcon.   One-shot, COMPLETE.


_-oOo-_

In the coldest part of the night, before the break of dawn, when grey mist provides fake light and everything is hazy and difficult to see, a shadow slips over the walls of the Royal Palace in Denerim. There is little difference between the shadow and the curls of morning mist around it, and the guards spot nothing untoward. Before first light has made its way through the windows of the royal bedchamber, a shape ghosts silently into the room, clothes discarded already, and slips into the empty side of the bed. Cold skin is kept carefully away from the warm back of the soundly sleeping King. Alistair knows her weakness, has always known and disapproved, but she keeps from him the knowledge of how often she succumbs.

It's her burden to bear, not his.

Queen Eloise Theirin, formerly Eloise Cousland. The Hero of Ferelden, former Grey Warden Commander, former Arlessa of Amaranthine.

Cat burglar.

She'd go mad without it, without _something_ to make her feel free, to allow her to _breathe_. She'd suffocate; stifled by the weight of her titles, her duty, pressed down by ceremony, by routine.

Smothered by her husband.

Every day she reminds herself that she truly does care for him. Every day it isn't enough. Every night the city sings to her, trying to pull her from their bed. Every night she lies there, feeling as though the blood within her moves so slowly, so sluggishly that she might simply… stop. The bite of the night air would get it moving. The feel of roof tiles beneath her thin-soled boots. The thrill of avoidance, of danger, of success, would make her feel alive again.

Some nights she resists, stays in bed, curls into the broad, warm, muscular body beside her and holds on tight. Some nights she succumbs, slipping away to don old leathers that fit like a glove, blackening her daggers just as the assassin taught her.

_-oOo-_

She's been planning this one for three days, ever since the Landsmeet, when she marked which Banns refused to provide assistance to feed those starving in the wake of the Blight. Some she dismissed, knowing that they were not rich. Those whose town houses and estates contained an abundance of wealth would be her targets over the next few weeks. Slim would be delighted to redistribute some of that wealth, while she could enjoy the rare luxury of occupying the moral high ground. It felt so much better than admitting she did this for kicks.

The estate was a difficult one to access; security was high, and so were the walls but her plan was solid and she was confident she could get in and out without being caught. She'd scouted several times before committing herself to this; she knew every wall and every patrol route. Eloise retained that much sanity at least; being caught would be a disaster for Alistair and she had discarded many marks and plans because the risks were too high. This one was pretty much foolproof.

She didn't even make it as far as the outer walls.

It was so subtle and unexpected she didn't spot it; some kind of bird, a pigeon perhaps, flew across her path at just the right moment to ensure she looked up, not down. In retrospect, she thought it had probably been released deliberately. As the trap snapped shut a tiny needle nicked her skin, just above her boot-top, and blackness closed in.

_-oOo-_

Consciousness returned in pieces. The air felt cold against her skin, and there was a displaced sense of not quite knowing where she was. Memory returned before full awareness and she knew that wherever she was, it couldn't be good. Her eyes were still closed, but the weight over them suggested a blindfold. Although she didn't want to move and give away that she was conscious, the angle of her arms and legs suggested she was restrained, tied to the surface she lay on.

Her caution came too late, it seemed; someone was aware of her wakefulness. Footsteps approached on a wooden floor and a hand slipped behind her head, raising it. A cup touched her lips and she turned her head away, fearing poison or drugs.

She heard an exasperated click of the tongue. "Palace life has made you slow and stupid, _custode mia_. If I wanted you drugged or dead, would I have waited until you woke?"

_Zev?_

The cup was again pressed to her lips, effectively gagging the six or more different things she'd like to say. By the time she'd drunk the water, the strangeness of her situation had sunk in a little further and she refrained from saying any of them. Her last meeting with Zev was not such as to suggest that he would kidnap her when they met again. Something had changed and before she blurted out anything, she needed to know what.

_You can go, just so long as you come back._

She'd cursed herself a hundred times for those words, never sure if she was cursing him for leaving, or herself for being stupid enough to ask him to return. She _made_ her decision, made it back in the Dalish camp when Alistair forced her to choose. The shadow of her mother had been behind her shoulder, reminding her that she was a Cousland. _A sweet, handsome man in line for the throne, darling; we should all be so fortunate. Surely you won't throw all that away for an elf?_

She flexed her arms, testing the bonds, futile though it undoubtedly was. Zev was hardly an amateur; the real question was: why was she bound at all? Wrists and ankles were both tied in such a manner as to spread-eagle her. That, combined with the slight give of the surface beneath her, suggested that she wass tied to bedposts.

"No greeting for me, _dolcezza_? Such a pity; I thought you'd be pleased to know that I returned." Callused fingertips moved a strand of hair that had fallen over her face. "So dull a lover the King must be, if you are forced to leave his bed and seek your thrills on the streets of Denerim."

_Ouch_. Trust Zevran to cut directly to the heart of her life. She prudently ignored his challenge and focussed on the question. "I'd have greeted you if we'd met as friends, Zevran. Friends don't kidnap each other or wake up tied down."

"Oh, you'd be surprised, _cara mia_." The lascivious amusement that dripped from his tone brought memories rushing back. "Either, or both, of those things are possible between friends."

The rough feel of blankets beneath her suggested that she was wearing very little. A wriggle confirmed the pull of her breastband. The play of air on her thighs, but not higher, told her that she wore smalls. No weight of armour or rub of cloth against her legs or midriff. If it was anyone else she'd be afraid, but this was _Zev_. She'd trust him with her life, had done many times. So what was the game? Had he gone back to the Crows? Was this a hit? Surely he wouldn't bid for it; it was unimaginable. Anyway, she'd be dead now, if that were the case. He was nothing, if not professional.

"You know, we'd be a lot more comfortable if you'd just called at the palace for a drink." She tried to keep her voice calm, keep the edge of questioning and, yes, _anger_, out of it.

"Oh, I am perfectly comfortable, I can assure you. And the view is so charming." He was standing close by; not only did his voice demonstrate it, but she could _smell_ him. Under the blindfold she closed her eyes, fighting the rush of sensation that flowed from that spicy scent. Just when she thought she had it under control there was the light touch of fingers across her stomach and she bucked at the unexpected contact. A familiar chuckle made her grit her teeth. "So sensitive, _custode mia_. We are going to have an enjoyable morning, you and I."

_Morning_? _How long was I out_? Worry gnawed at her for the first time; if she wasn't back at the Palace by first light…

She couldn't afford these games; Alistair would have the Maker-damned Guard out looking for her.

"Zev, tell me what's going on. What do you want?"

"Well now, that's a fair question. Unfortunately, it may be the_ wrong_ question. I rather think that the real question is: what do_ you_ want?" Again there was that light, teasing touch; a trickle of sensation across her belly, over her hip and down her thigh. Eloise fought to keep still; whatever game was being played here, she had no intention of submitting. "These last two weeks, since I arrived back in Ferelden, I've watched you, _custode mia:_ watched you sneaking out of the palace, playing burglar in the middle of the night." His hand travelled slowly up the inside of her thigh, and at the moment her control failed, and she twitched slightly upwards, the touch ended. "Is the treasury so empty,_ cara_? Surely it must require a vital mission to lure you out of your warm bed, leaving Alistair all alone."

_Shit_. There really wasn't a good answer to this. "That's none of your business, Zev." She aimed for haughty, but feared that all she'd achieved was prim.

"Well now, that's what I intend to find out. If you are correct, then in a few hours you will leave here unharmed and return to your husband. What could be fairer than that?"

"What do you mean, _if_ I'm correct? Are you setting yourself up as the judge? On what grounds?"

Suddenly his voice hissed beside her ear, although she would have sworn he was too far away to reach it so fast. "My dear, do I have to remind you that you are my prisoner? I hold _all_ of the power right now."

The scent of his breath overwhelmed her. Unconsciously she turned her head towards him, breathing it in. _Maker, I missed you._ Resolutely she returned to her original position, ignoring the invitation of his closeness. _No, I did this, I made my decision. _"So, Ser Judge, what do I have to do to convince you to let me go?"

"It's perfectly simple, _amora_. You merely have to resist what I offer you." The statement was bland, the tone utterly uncompromising. He had moved away from her ear again, his voice coming from her right and above her. "If you are happy in your life; if you are contented as wife and Queen, then this task should be absurdly easy, should it not?" His hand smoothed over her cheek, the gesture unashamedly affectionate. "But if I am right, if the woman who escapes the palace every night is seeking to escape her restrictive life, then we shall have a different outcome."

"Deal." _Wait, what?_ While the free spirit who struggled in her gilded cage exulted in the challenge, the good Cousland girl who had done her duty screamed in outrage. _I must be insane, why would I agree to such a thing?_

"_Molto buono_. Then we shall begin."

_-oOo-_

She was a glorious sight, spread out like this on the bed, tied and blindfolded, her dark hair strewn over the blanket and her head turning, listening for him. But it was not a sight Zevran had originally sought. He had promised that he would return, and he had done so, expecting nothing more from it than the welcoming smile of a friend.

It was a promise he should not have made; to return here, to see her happy with her foolish, muscle-bound King. But, in the aftermath of the Archdemon's death, when he, like everyone, could deny her nothing, she had asked it of him and he had agreed. So that was that. He would come, he would smile, he would make her laugh with exotic stories of Antiva, and he would leave as soon as he could.

Except that he had not found her happy.

It had become second nature during his time in Antiva, to reconnoitre every area before entering it. It was part of a routine which had kept him alive while he re-established his position; while he methodically took down Master after Master, cell after cell, until the Crows were prepared to make a deal. He didn't even think about whether it was necessary to do so in Ferelden; he could no more have walked up to the gates of the Palace blind and announced his presence, than he could have laid down in the streets of Antiva and slept.

His reconnaissance of the Palace had stripped Eloise naked in his eyes, shown him her weakness, her failings, her unhappiness.

The fury it unleashed in him had been as all-encompassing as it was unexpected. For this she had left him: to become a pale shadow of the woman he had known. It was not to be endured.

"Now, _carissima_, we shall start with something simple." Zevran ran his finger across her lips, amused at how she instinctively opened and softened to him. He dipped his head and brushed his mouth softly across hers, a butterfly touch, light as a cobweb. As he drew away a little, she exhaled gently, her mouth soft and unconsciously inviting, her face turned up like a flower to the sun.

"Do you want me to kiss you, _cara_?" He hovered just out of reach, where she could feel his breath on her face. When she didn't answer him, he offered the merest contact before withdrawing again. "You must speak, _dolcezza_, to accept or refuse. To do otherwise is the coward's way, and you have never been that."

"I-" Eloise moistened her lips, perhaps unaware of how inviting it was. "I'm married."

"That is not an answer. Yes or no, _custode mia_. I will accept nothing else." He watched the play of emotions on her face. "If you lie, then I shall know. You know this, do you not? A lie would be beneath you, and will make me angry."

"Yes." She bit her lip and turned her head away, the action in sharp contrast to her answer.

"Very good, _piccolina mia_, you may have your reward." Zevran dipped a shade, just enough to touch lips with her. He moved his mouth around the edge of her cupid's bow, teasing until she turned back to him, until she admitted what she wanted in body as well as in voice. As soon as she did so, he offered firmer pressure and she stretched her neck to meet him. The taste of her was just as he remembered, drawing him back two years, to campfires and wood smoke and bedrolls, to a brief time when he'd almost dared to hope.

Without warning she turned her head sharply, tearing her mouth from his, burying her face in her own shoulder. Zevran stepped back, away from her; realising that _once again_ she had sent him one signal, only to replace it with another.

This was a mistake. What was he doing? He'd wanted to punish her for her stupidity, yes, but also he wanted to know, really know… what? Whether she'd walk away, whether she wanted him, after all? _You are a fool. Zevran, were you not taught better than this? _Annoyance at his own idiocy mixed with anger at hers. No, it couldn't be done like this. It couldn't be tender, or sweet. Yes, she would want it, but what did that prove? Nothing. She had wanted it before, but not badly enough, apparently. It was no different now; she could turn on a pin. It proved nothing.

All he could do was show her, demonstrate how shallow her choices had been, how easily she lied to herself and to him. Leave her in full knowledge of it when he walked away.

There wasn't anything else that could be relied upon.

_-oOo-_

She'd been overcome with the smell of him, the taste. It had taken real effort to pull away, but she had to, _she had to._

Now there was silence; his warmth had been withdrawn.

"Zev?" she whispered and was briefly comforted by his chuckle before cold steel pressed against her breast.

"I'm altering the rules, _cara_." There was the snick of a blade through fabric and her breastband fell away. "You shall not be able to resist _anything_ I offer." The edge in his voice confused her. What had she done to cause such a change?

The touch of his hands shoved aside such thoughts; clever fingers that knew every sensitive spot, that knew exactly where to rub, when to pull, how to pinch. She arched up into those hands, every touch amplified by the blindfold.

"You see, _bellissima_?" The fluid, honeyed voice was roughened with anger. "Do you understand?" His mouth descended on her right nipple, tongue flicking, and she moaned, pulling against her restraints. One hand pulled at the other nipple, while the other made lazy circles on her stomach. And overlaying everything, his scent; she could smell his hair where it brushed her throat. The tightness gathering in her belly took her control away; she was dimly aware that her hips were rising, over and over, and that even without friction she would come, shamefully soon, just from this alone.

"Zev, why?" The question came out as an agonised whisper. Why had he done this; why had he trapped her here? Why was he angry? And yet, every moment, her body betrayed her, yearning towards him.

"You need to ask?" He pulled away, leaving cold air to rush into the void he left. She felt the knife at her hip and stiffened, before it again snicked through fabric. First one side and then the other, before he ripped the garment away, leaving her naked. "If you have to ask, then I'm not making my point clear enough."

"No! Zev, please, you don't understand." His fingers trailed down from her stomach and a shudder rippled through her before he'd even reached her groin.

"As always,_ cara_, only your body tells the truth." There was a cold certainty in his voice that contrasted oddly with the caressing tone. "Your eyes too, if I uncovered them. Your voice speaks only the lies required to keep your cage locked."

Long, sensitive fingers reached between her legs and then pulled away even as she bucked in response. A moment later they pressed between her lips, pushing her teeth apart, moist and fragrant with her need. "You see?"

She choked, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, unable to respond properly until he allowed it. For a moment more he controlled her mouth, but when she refused to acknowledge the presence of those intrusive fingers with their telltale scent, he sighed and withdrew them.

"You lie to yourself, _amora mia_, more than to me or anyone."

"Damn it, Zev." Eloise pulled on the restraints in frustration. "What do you want to hear? That I want you? I do. That I've missed you? I have." She wanted to hit something and settled for thumping her head back against the bed. "It doesn't change anything though, does it?" Despite her best efforts, a small tremble appeared in her tone. "I made my choice, Zev. For what it's worth-" The tremble had become a quaver and she clamped down on it, before trying again. "For what it's worth, it was the wrong choice. But I made it, and I get to live with it."

"Oh? Why is that? Who are you making happy with this choice, _custode mia_? Alistair?" The bed creaked as his weight came down on it; she could feel the back of his armour against her waist and hip. "How happy he must be, when his woman sneaks out in the night, seeking excitement that he cannot provide."

She swung her hips to the side, to nudge his back reprovingly. "Don't take a swipe at Alistair; none of this is _his_ fault." She suddenly realised that not only her hip, but also her leg had moved. He'd slipped the knot while she was talking. His weight shifted again and she felt his arm brush hers before the pressure holding up her right wrist eased. Before she could react, his weight moved across her, hard leather and buckles pressing against her naked breasts before the last knot slipped free and he withdrew again to sit beside her.

"There, you are free." He sounded weary; Eloise moved her arms, pulling the soft rope from them and rubbing the stiffness a little. She shut her eyes before tearing off the blindfold, and then popped an eye open by a crack.

The lamplight was not bright, and situated on the other side of Zev, outlining him in a soft glow. She couldn't help how her heart leapt at the sight, but it hurt, Oh Maker, _how_ it hurt. He was in profile, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring off into space. His mere presence, the shape of his back and shoulders, the smell of his armour was too solid, too real. She'd missed him so much, but she didn't dare touch him now.

Eloise tucked up her stiff limbs, wrapping her arms around her legs and dropping her chin on her knees. It didn't seem important that she was still naked. The room was plain and shabby, but warm, a small fire taking off the early morning chill of spring. Light leaked between the frayed curtains; the crystal light of early morning.

Tears pricked at her eyes and she dropped her head to hide them, resting her forehead on her knees. Everything was a mess, and it was all her fault. By making the wrong choice at the start, she could not now avoid hurting one of these men.

"Zev, I'm s-"

"Don't." He stood, both the word and abrupt movement cutting off her apology. She looked up to find his amber gaze fixed on her, his expression unfathomable. "I shall be taking a ship to Antiva tonight on the late tide." His voice was gentle, but not caressing, as impossible to penetrate as his expression. "Do not worry, _cara mia_. I shall not interrupt your life again."

The finality of it brought back the tears, but she swallowed them. He deserved better than to be burdened with her distress; it was hers to bear, not his. She shut her eyes so she did not have to watch him leave; a soft kiss was dropped on her forehead, and then he was gone. Only then did she weep, crying out her heartbreak until it was emptied upon the rough pillow.

_-oOo-_

"Your Majesty, you asked to be informed immediately; the Queen has just returned."

Alistair turned from the sitting room window and nodded. If his eyes were a little blank, the servant didn't know him well enough to notice. "Thank you. Have my wife's bath filled, please, and breakfast sent up for both of us."

By the time Eloise slipped in from the bedchamber, her hair damp and a robe covering her nakedness, Alistair had finished eating. He poured tea for both of them while she filled her plate, seeing out of the corner of his eye the puffiness in her face, which no amount of bathing could entirely obliterate.

For a few agonizing minutes he watched her pick apart a sausage, her Warden's appetite having apparently deserted her. It was no good; he couldn't put this off any longer, it hurt too damn much.

"You were late back this morning." It was a neutral enough start. Alistair didn't feel equipped to dive into the middle of this conversation.

She jumped, pulled out of a brown study by his words, deep brown eyes flying to his. "I… got delayed." She seemed to notice the dilapidated sausage for the first time and dropped the pieces onto her plate, wiping her hands on a napkin. The action allowed her to avert her face from his gaze. "I'm sorry if you were worried. It won't happen again."

"I wasn't worried." Again her eyes flew to his, confusion and mistrust jostling for position with her pain. _It's time, Alistair. The one good thing about being a King is that you learn how to play the game_. "I know Zevran would never allow you to be hurt."

"You _knew_? But-" A myriad of emotions crossed her face; he stood and walked to the window, not wishing to see some of them.

"That he was in Ferelden? I've known for weeks." Alistair folded his arms across his chest so she couldn't see his shaking hands. Maker, this was so_ hard_. "We have spies, my dear, remember? I know everyone who docks in Denerim; even those who come in clandestinely under a false name."

"I didn't know. All these weeks-" She paused a moment, digesting it. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She actually sounded accusing. His wife, who slipped out of his bed every night, didn't like him having secrets. It would be funny if it weren't so tragic.

"I chose not to." The tone was one he never used with her, would _never_ do so, normally. One of an army of manipulative tones painstakingly learnt in order to do his new duty: statecraft. This one said '_Don't question me, I have the right._'

"Alistair, I didn't- I would never have-" She faltered and tried again. "I didn't go to him. I didn't even know he was here."

"It doesn't matter." The other tool of statecraft: convincing lies. _Keep it together, Alistair, don't mess this up_. "Eamon came to see me again, yesterday, about the succession."

He closed his eyes briefly and set his jaw before turning from the window. She was still sitting in her chair, hands kneading the thin fabric of her robe. A crease appeared between her eyes as she looked up at him. "The succession? It's only been three years; he knows how difficult it is for two Wardens. What's all this about?"

"The Bannorn aren't happy. We either deal with it now, or eventually they'll raise it at Landsmeet." That much was true, but it would be years before they would resort to such a drastic measure. She would know that as well as he did, if not better. Before she could gather her thoughts, refute it, he pressed on. "They will call for me to put you aside."

"Alistair-"

_Don't give her time to think, to speak_.

"I am prepared to do so."

The words spread out from Alistair like ripples in a pool, while he fought to keep as much emotion as possible out of his face.

"I see." Her eyes were searching his face, while her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She'd never seemed more beautiful to him. "Do I get a say in this?"

"Actually, you do." Alistair smiled at her for the first time, proud of himself for achieving it, despite the effort it cost. "I made you choose once, Eloise. Now, I'm going to do it again; just this one more time."

He crossed to the desk and reached into a drawer; several people had been called from their beds in the early hours to make this happen, when he got the final news. "Zevran sails on the evening tide. He's sailing under the name of Geraldo Marconi." He held out a packet of papers and she took them reluctantly, still confused. "These are yours, if you want them. A passage on the same ship, letters of credit to establish you in Antiva." He drew in a shaky breath, watching as she turned the packet over and over in her hands. "If you are still here tomorrow, my love, then I'll fight the Landsmeet to the hilt to keep you with me. But no more late night excursions; that has to end."

When she raised her eyes to his, they were drowned in tears. "Alistair, why? How can you do this?"

_Steady, don't go to her. Let her make the choice, alone_. "Because I was young and stupid, too much so to realise what a terrible mistake it was, forcing a choice from you in the middle of a Blight. Maker, Eloise, we had so much on our plates, it was insane; how could any of us be sure of anything? And then we pushed through the decision for you to be Queen, but you've never seemed happy."

Alistair swallowed hard, seeing the dawning comprehension on her face. "I want you to be happy. Fighting the Landsmeet… it'll be a hard slog and we can't succeed unless our hearts are truly in it." She held out her hand and he took it, squeezing gently. "We're not kids any more, Eloise; it's time to face up to the truth. So, make a choice. Not right now, you've got all day. I'll leave you alone, I promise. No pressure; not this time." He had to get away before he cracked. He could already see her decision in her face and it was breaking him apart.

Alistair went to pull away and her grip tightened. She stood and lifted his hand, kissing his fingers. "You're a wonderful man, Alistair. You deserve better than me. You always did."

_Maker help me_.

_-oOo-_

The creak of timbers mixed with the colourful curses of sailors and the tramp of feet as a mass of boxes and bundles were loaded into the hold. A slim, straight figure stood by the rail, facing out to sea, away from the bustle and scurry of the Denerim docks.

A biting wind cut across the deck, making Zevran shiver. He'd be glad to get out of this cold, wet country, back to Antiva City; to warm sun, good food and the stink of foul water and political corruption. Ah, how he loved her, his homeland.

He ignored the part of him that suggested maybe he should stay another day or two; that way madness lay. Best to cut all ties cleanly. Other passengers came aboard, but he resolutely stared out over the water, the setting sun in the west throwing glinting rays across the peaks and troughs. His pride would not allow him to turn, to search every face, to look for her. If they approached him, he would know and would have time to ensure they died before they reached him.

He'd seen her weakness this morning; she wouldn't come, she wouldn't rock her safe little world.

Only once they were cut loose, once the anchor had been hauled in by many hands, the course set and the noise of Denerim harbour faded into the distance did Zev allow himself to relax slightly. He released the death-grip he had upon the rail and rolled his shoulders, forcing the tension to bleed away. Now it was time to set his face to the future; time to making use of the concessions he'd wrung from the Crows, to create a place and a role for himself in Antiva.

The appearance of another figure beside him at the rail should not have been possible. Very few could move so quietly as to deceive him; certainly no Crow that he knew of could do so. His hand shot out to grasp what should have been the knife hand, but it was empty, relaxed. From under the enveloping hood being snapped and ruffled by the wind, dark brown eyes gazed into his, a soft smile promised everything he desired. Gold glinted in the darkness of her hood, an earring she had not been wearing that morning.

"You came." Few things left the assassin wrong-footed, but this… He hadn't expected, he'd never thought… The woman moving slowly towards him - his grip falling away from her hand as she lifted the other to his face - was slightly taller than he, her head tilting down a fraction to kiss him. Buckles and straps snagged together on their armour, hers almost as well-worn as his. The tight fist clenched around his heart released its grip; the sudden freedom from grief and pain was intoxicating. His arms wrapped around her, tightening until she squeaked and laughed.

He laughed with her, the spark of adventure in her eyes matched in his. "Ah, _amora_, what fun we shall have together. I shall show you Antiva City, my beautiful home. This will be _fantastico_! But first," his mouth found hers again, teasing at her lips, offering a hint of promise, "perhaps we should go inside, yes? It is cold out here, no?"

A woman of few words, his Warden, his Eloise. Her arm around his waist tightened, pulling him to the steps that led down to the cabins. It was with joy in his heart that Zevran acceded to her insistence.

_-oOo-_


End file.
